


Vino

by CacoPhoniA



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Triggers, unclear ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:13:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CacoPhoniA/pseuds/CacoPhoniA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You'd kiss him if you could, but everything's a little dark, and the only thing keeping you from drifting off into dreamland is that perfect warm hand pressed against your cold arm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vino

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, just a beforehand warning.
> 
> This contains a suicide attempt, so if that triggers you or anything, don't read this.  
> I don't go too into detail but I just wanna play it safe.

You are looking out the window, not really at anything in particular, when you hear the tires screech onto your driveway.

 

You don't bother to look up from where you're lying, and you simply continue to stare out the window, marveling in the way the light can turn your eyelashes into little crystals that sparkle under the light.

 

Your skin is so, so pale in the light. Pretty blue veins spiral up until they are pressed up against your skin. You could cut them out easily, you think, watching them wiggle like worms.

The knocking on your door is enough to give you a headache, and you know sitting up will make it worse. Your legs are sort of out of commission anyway, seeing as they twitch and flop to the side whenever you attempt to pick yourself up off of the carpet. Only then, as you look down at your feet, do you notice you have one shoe on, the other foot covered in a dirty striped sock.

You laugh, throwing your head back until it thunks against the floor.

Ow.

 

The knocking grows louder, and a voice comes with it, muffled like someone had put a plastic bag over their head.

It says your name over and over and over, and what a pretty voice it is. The doorknob rattles and you don't care if you locked it or not. Your arms have started hurting along with your head, and you look down to watch the pretty life fluid soak the carpet like the roses Nonno used to bring to Nonna before she died. It's even turning the wilted brown color the flowers used to turn too.

 

Even though it hurts a lot, you smile, and it doesn't feel quite right on your skin without your makeup. You wish you would've slapped some on before you decided to play doctor on yourself with that pocket knife Karkat got you for Christmas one year.

He'd be glad you put it to some use.

 

Ow, ow, there's the knocking again, except this time it sounds like it's coming from inside and out. 

Your head is knocking for you, telling you to get up, get  _up_ you  _stupid_   _ **motherfucker!!**_

 

The voice sounds a lot like Karkat, but he isn't the one at the door. He's in your head, giving you good advice like he always did. 

 

The voice is a lot shriller, and the doorknob rattles in a weird way that you can barely hear anymore, thanks to Karkat and your pulse screaming in your ears the way they like to do. Something tells you that you should unlock the door to let this person in; what kind of fucking host would you be if you didn't?

 

Seems as if you don't need to do that, though, because the next thing you know the big door is being swung open like a jack-in-the-box, and the most beautiful person you've ever seen is standing there, mohawk all dishevled and pretty blush gracing that mocha-colored skin. 

It's your Tav, of course, you tell yourself, and you want to wave but your arms are really heavy.

 

 

He's holding what looks like a bag, but that's on the floor in seconds as he drops everything and runs over to you, all tottering like he does since he got those miraculous prosthetics.

His mouth is moving, but nothing comes out, and the lips look like they say your name over and over and over. It's a really beautiful sight, you think, and your good hand lifts itself up to rest on his thin little shoulder.

Shit. Some of that red shit falls onto his white shirt, but that's what washers are for.

 

Funny you couldn't even hear your own pulse anymore, let alone the words your Tav is trying to stammer out of his mouth.

 

You can't hear yourself talk either, but you can hear the hum in the back of your throat, telling you that something was coming out of your mouth in the form of a sound.

 

Ow, fuck. 

 

His hand is pressed against the pretty split skin on your left arm, and the red red is spread all grazzy over his pretty hands. You wish you could wipe it off for him, but moving is getting much, much harder to do than a few minutes before. You look up at those positively amazing eyes, and something not so amazing is happening.

Your little miracle brother is crying, face all wrinkled up in the saddest thing you've ever seen.

 

You shake your head groggily, trying to tell him to stop, but your mouth isn't moving.

 

His mouth is hitching and screwed up like he's trying to say something, until you can finally read those perfect lips:

 

_"I'm sorry."_

_  
_You wanna tell him that he shouldn't be sorry, everything's fine now, isn't it? You don't feel too hot, sure, but it's gonna be okay now.

Everyone will be just fine and dandy as soon as that red stuff stops coming out of you, but he's blocking it's exit pretty effectively. 

 

You wish he'd stop that, because you don't want him to have it stained all over him like wine on lonely nights.

 

Your eyes are heavy, and he's getting real blurry. You wanna tell him that, too, but he's busy fishing his phone out of his pocket, dialing only three numbers before looking down at you, phone pressed to his ear. His lips are moving rapidfire that makes your head hurt even more just to watch, but he isn't crying so much anymore. No, your Tav is looking stronger than ever, and you're just so proud of him.

 

You'd kiss him if you could, but everything's a little dark, and the only thing keeping you from drifting off into dreamland is that perfect warm hand pressed against your cold arm.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this was kinda depressing. It seems all I can write is death related stuff, jfc.
> 
> The ending is up to you!


End file.
